


Between Lives and Wishes

by BlushingMaidenMood



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingMaidenMood/pseuds/BlushingMaidenMood
Summary: Snippets of my own OC's.Where are they from?Where will they go?Its to not loose them when my mood to write small things again.Its the scenes in between.About small changes and big waves.And what could have beens.
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Transformers is not mine.  
> I am making no money with my works.
> 
> Its only for my own amusement.
> 
> And maybe yours.
> 
> There will be three OC's. They are not connected, at least right now. But I want you to meet them, get to know them.  
> Maybe understand them.

36-5-12 and 36-5-11 were curled up together in their little corner of the hab. 11, the bigger of the two, protectiing the smaller youngling, her arms gently wrapped around the more fragile minibot youngling.  
The room is dark, there are no lights anywhere but their biolights. No windows, no electronic flickers and no indication for a door.

They dont need it anymore though. They have stayed in that room for centuries now, know every nook and cranny of their little safe space, know every hole in their one threadbare blanket on which they are resting.  
The air is stiffling, ripe with the smells and odors of spilled oil and dried energon.

But its theirs.  
Their little haven.

36-5-11 clears her intake.   
It sounds strained and something is rattling inside.  
"I was thinking." her voice is whispersoft and sounds like liquid velvet.  
36-5-12 could listen to that voice all day and night but its a treat she seldomly gets.

"What were you thinking about?" she answers quietly.  
"How about.. we get our own names?"  
The silence around them is oppressive.

"Like... Like the Elders? You know thats forbidden..."  
"I know... but... wouldnt it be- nice? To not only be a number? To have your own name? And guard it? Our Secret?"

36-5-11 sounds so- hopefully broken. Its tearing at the dancing warmth that is living in 36-5-12's own chassis and from which she knows that 11 has one as well.  
"Ours....?"   
36-5-12 looks at the fluttering and shimmering wings on her batchmates back, soft and glowy spots swirling slowly over the see through appendages.  
"If you would have one.... a name... I think it would be Lightbright... Or Willowisp.." she murmurs into the dark, barely able to see those violet optics above her.

Stunned silence is her answer, along with the tightening grip of arms around her.  
"I... I like those... I think.. I would treasure Lightbright more. It sounds more... Hopeful and light." the bigger youngling nuzzles her helm gently against the smaller one.  
"For you... 12, i think for you it would be Download.." the bigger, winged Youngling murmurs, helm tilting in thought.  
"Or.. mhm. That sounds a bit downtrodden.. nothing with down..." 

12 waits. She is quite good at waiting, had learned it as one of her first few lections from the Elders.  
Her processor catalogues her batchmates reactions, saving all those small microexpressions she can make out in the dark.

Its taking minutes or longer and 12 feels her dancing warmth getting heavier and heavier as the stillness and silence drags on.  
Until 11- no Lightbright- twitches, her wings fluttering harshly on her back and a small giggle escapes her.

"Uplink. I think your name would be Uplink."  
And she smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

Swift and nearly silent steps enter the room. Tip-tapping to the biggest glas or whatever material that was through which she can look.   
There are dancing stars outside, swirling and moving around each other, close but never quite touching, leaving a trail of sparks, embers lighting for seconds before flickering and joining the glittering darkness all around.

It had been quite some time now, that she found somewhere to be away from the Archive, to be safe.   
Quite some time now from the last she saw of her sister.

Lightbright...

Where could she be now?   
Was she alright?  
Was she safe?

Or... had she been...

Uplink looks at her left arm and unclips the slightly thicker plating around her wrist, taking it off to look at the print running right under the thumb. 

36-5-12

"Hey Sister. I... I know I am very late. I would say sorry for it but you never liked me saying sorry for anything. So, Im not starting. At least not to you. I... I wanted to let you know that I am alright, that I am ok and safe. And I found others."  
Her optics follow a shooting star sailing right by the window.

"Its different here than on the Archive. Its more.. more. Its everything you ever dreamt of. That we ever dreamed of."

Her tiny servo lays on the glass.

"I wish you could be here with me." she whispers, optics closing.

And then she starts singing under her vents, barely audible. Wishing that her voice would get carried through the Universe to her sister.

♪ "Something has changed within me  
Something is not the same  
I'm through with playing by the rules  
Of someone else's game  
Too late for second-guessing  
Too late to go back to sleep  
It's time to trust my instincts  
Close my eyes and leap!

It's time to try  
Defying gravity  
I think I'll try  
Defying gravity  
Kiss me goodbye"♪

She is happy.


	3. Chemtrail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Chemtrail.

Cybertron, the golden Age.   
Energon, Occupation, Resting Places and Shanix for all of the Bots, for everyone.

*What a hoax.*

Sure, most of the upper class and middle class Bots had all those things, and safety, a roof over their helms, the opportunity to become and *be* more, but Bots like me and mine?   
Sure as Pit not.

We, I, sure as Pit didn't have those things. No safety. No regular Energon. No opportunity to be something new or to lead a successful existence. 

No, Not we. Not we Bots living in the Dead End.  
Or, let me be more precise.  
Not we, who we are surviving in the Dead End.

We are broken, we are unfinished, we are forgotten and buried.   
But we are never alone. There are always bots, sacrifices, victims and the bottom of the caste system here, scraping by, stealing, fighting, dismantling themselves just to see another cycle.

Its a vicious way of living, of surviving, but we manage. You find your niche, find a way to be needed, or you fall prey to the Scavengers and Cannibals down here.

Luckily, I am one of those who found a niche. Fast.

Because there is no other choice here.   
Get creative or get eaten, in some parts down here that can be taken quite literal mind you.

I was forged, but the one ordering me deemed me a failure, a reject. So after barely functioning for a short while, getting to know the world above, the scenes, the LIFE, I was thrown away, like a Puppet, like an unruly Pet. Shackled and disfigured, left to become the next meal of someone or to offline slowly, without a care in the world.   
They didn't even took parts, my parts, away from me, didn't even dismantle me for reuse.

Amateurs.

Instead of giving up, instead of rolling over and offline already, I clung to my existence, filled with nothing but determination and spite.

I am not something to throw away, not someone to be left behind or forgotten!  
I made my Name down here, down in the Dead End, here where everything else Ends, I found my Beginning.

I am Chemtrail, and for some down here, I am the last One they will ever see.


	4. Chemtrail DARK!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from my Tumblr, a prompt of a song for an OC to show a bit more of His/her life.
> 
> Chemtrail -> Back against the wall from Caged Elephants

Chemtrail → Back against the wall by Caged Elephants

There are two mechs in his workshop. Both offline.   
One is a shiny green color, plating smooth and obviously well cared for. The limbs are slim and detailed, the digits well fitting and adorned with intricate designs.  
The other is a scarred and worn model, heavy built and with scratches and dents all over the frame, optics cracked and repaired with something that resembles glue, maybe.

If the world would be a fair place, he would not be here. He would not stant in this workshop, his former white plating splattered with blue and pinkish fluids, he would not feel the leash around his neck getting tighter and tighter, making it hard to breath, hard to move. Even though it is not really there.

„You know what I want you to do.“ the velvety voice speaks from behind him, the tones whisper soft and such a warm and caring sound that his spark wants to constrict and snuff itself out.

„Its a first frame.“ he dares to whisper, his own hidden optics laying on the green one, the smooth frame with the bronze colored details and the small red chevron and the more dragonfly like wings on its back.   
A designer frame.   
But the spark is so young.

Sharp digits dance over his exposed neck and Chemtrail does not move, his frame going ramrod straight and the rotors on his back frozen as the grip changes, one tip of a digit warmly stroking down one of his rotorblades.   
He feels icky, like someone just smeared freshly spilled energon on him.

Its not so far off now, isn't it?

„I promised him an Upgrade. He is such a loyal one. And always wanted such pretty wings.“ The velvet voice continues and Chemtrail wants to scream and shout and turn around to ram his surgical tools into the others cranial unit, wants to rip him apart for all the things he had to -

„The Wings?“ he asks instead, without power in his own workshop, helpless prey to the mech standing behind him and fondling his rotorblades.

„Yes. Maybe those digit decals as well. Only the best for my loyal servant. He has to earn another Upgrade for another piece of armor though. This green will not be coming anywhere in my quarters. So dispose of it afterwards.“ there is another affectionate tap of digits on his helm, the very tips hooking under the edges of his facemask to lift it slightly and he can peek out of the corner of his optics the brilliant purple ones set in a smooth face and that smile like the most precious of gems.

„You know what will happen if you don't know. I will send a transport for him in the morning. You have 5 hours.“

Chemtrail does not move as the warmth at his back vanishes, only the whispering of cloth over metal floor telling him of the other mechs disappearing.

He does not shake.  
He does not think.  
There is not much he can do.  
It goes against everything in his basis programming.

But you don't survive the Dead End if you cling to your morals too tightly. 

And if he doesn't do it, he will be the next one on anothers medical berth, or the slaughter houses. And who will the others come to then?

He allows himself a keen and shaky servos that run over the smooth First Frame, taking it the sheen of wax coating hi- it. 

He does not know how long he is standing over the green one, the object.   
He should not loose time like this, but he can't stop looking.

With the most gentle of touches, he turns the First Frame around, knowing he will doom the flier to a life without wings, to Sky Hunger, until h- it can get new ones and a good doctor.   
But he has to.

His back is against the wall and he has no way out. He is not high enough on the food chain to change anthing about the situation.   
But he knows he will loose himself if he can't find another way, can't find a way to let the First Frame live.

His servos start working, his processor quite, and his optics looking anywhere but the green frame he is stealing the wings from.

There is another clinic, more clean, more medical and sciency than his. There is a mech working it, not taking shanix. The bots of the Dead End don't trust him, not yet. He is working in a place where the enforcers come by every hour, so it doesn't get ransacked.  
He is a good medic, a dedicated one, pristine colors and smooth frame. 

There will be a acid storm tonight. 

And if the First Frame winds up at the steps of that clinic, wingless, servoless and covered in energon and transfluids, but not one drop of acid damage on the sensitive plates and cables;  
And if his own white frame is missing a few more platings, has smoking holes eating through his frame and his optics are dim and tired;

Well... No one has to know, right?

He stands with his back against the wall and there are claws on his shoulders and a warm and proud gaze checking the silk and velvet collar that lays tight around his throat, the leash so short that he can't get away again.

♫  
Now you know  
Yeah you got my back against the wall  
Oh god  
I ain't got no other place to hide  
Chained down  
Like a sitting duck just waiting for the fall  
You know  
Yeah you got my back against the wall   
♫


End file.
